With or Without You
by Ninazadzia
Summary: AU. Cato survives the Games, but he doesn't feel like a winner. "I left everything I loved in the Arena." Clato.


**WARNING**: This fic is dark as fuck. We're talking prostitution, murder, suicide, etcetera. Read at your own discretion.

* * *

**With or Without You**

By Ninazadzia

* * *

"_**I can't live**_

_**With or without you…"**_

* * *

It's hard to hear Claudius' announcement clearly, in between how fast my heart is racing and how much my head is pounding. Sprinting for four miles and killing two people can do that to you. I look to Clove, to make sure I'm not the only one who feels the world swimming under my feet. We lock eyes for a second, and it's enough to bring me back to reality.

As if Clove Fuhrman, of all people, would be my refuge from unsteadiness.

I can place her expression perfectly. Her hair, matted in tangles, and the blood that covers her hands suit it. And as she heaves heavily in the middle of this field and looks down to Katniss Everdeen's body, the strap of her shirt slips off her shoulder.

I think of last night. I think of all of our other nights, in District Two. How different those nights will be, now that we're coming home as Victors.

Claudius' voice sounds beyond foreign as it interrupts my thoughts.

"There's been a slight rule change."

My gaze hasn't left Clove. It hasn't left her shoulder, where the strap is falling down so innocently. The only exposed part of her that isn't covered in blood.

"The ruling that allowed for two Victors has been, err, revoked."

His words hang in the air for a second.

"There can only be one winner."

I stop breathing.

It's like jumping off a cliff into waist deep water—you have to do it before you can think too much. Think, and you might have just enough time to talk yourself out of it. Act first, and deal with the immediate consequences of a painful fall or shivering for all of a few minutes, before it subsides.

It's with that reasoning that I plunge my knife into Clove's stomach.

As her canon goes off, her shock is still written all over her face. As if what I've done hasn't registered just yet.

* * *

I met her when I was ten years old. I knew the face years before that, but it wasn't until that first day she showed up at the academy that I could match it to a name.

"Who's that one?"

When my mom asked questions, she demanded answers. She was picking me up from class, pointing a finger at the one girl who was walking home in the opposite direction of everyone else. Walking to the northern sector of District Two, where the miners lived.

"Clove somebody. She's new."

My mom narrowed her eyes. "She looks like a Fuhrman."

"Yeah, I think that's it." I looked up at her. "What's wrong with the Furhmans?" The disgust in her voice was hard to miss.

She tugged me along. "You stay away from her, Cato."

"What's wrong with the Fuhrmans?" I asked again.

She didn't answer me, so I asked my older sister Lucia that night

"I've heard the name a few times," she said. "What's she look like?

"Pale, dark hair, lots of freckles . . ." _Pretty, _I left out.

_"Oh,"_ Lucia said, "I know who you're talking about." She dropped her voice and leaned in. "She's one of the miner's daughters, right?"

"Yeah. She walked home that way. Nobody picked her up." I added that detail, because it seemed important.

"That's because her dad hates her."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I've heard about them. He beats up his kids all the time." Her eyes were wide, probably because we both knew the topic was taboo.

"Why does he do that?"

"Not everyone has parents like mom and dad." Her face suddenly darkened.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll get to choose whether or not you want to volunteer when you're older. Clove's parents will probably make her."

_"What?"_

I was a ten-year old boy. To say hearing that disturbed me was an understatement. But Lucia nodded sadly, four years older and wiser than me.

"Shouldn't there be some kind of law against that?" I sputtered, angry.

My sister laughed, darkly. "In District Two? Please." She leaned back against her bed frame. "People like Clove's parents are more common that you'd think."

I suddenly thought back to the time I spent at the Academy, sparring with Augustus and Felicia. I remembered seeing the manic fire in their eyes, and the numerous bruises they had on their bodies. Their anger. Their determination.

I shook my head. "I'll never be like that."

She ran a hand through my hair. "Of course you won't."

* * *

I don't mind the idea of smiling for the cameras, flexing for the audience, and faking it for the rest of my life. I can do that much. I can appear like a picturesque Victor.

No, what I mind are the interviews. The prying, the small-talk, and _especially _the questions about my district partner.

"Give them what they want," Brutus mutters, clapping me on the back before I walk out onto the stage.

I'm met with bright lights and the deafening roar of the crowd. I smile, I wave, and Caesar continues to gush about "the monstrous Cato_,_ _Victor_ of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games!"

I must've put on a good show, that final day. Because as much as the audience eats me up, some of them legitimately cower when—as per Brutus' commands—I flex my arms, revealing my strength.

It's meaningless small talk, for a bit.

"Were you ever concerned, about District Twelve's tributes?"

"No, not really." That much is true.

"How would you say you and your allies worked together? Would you describe it as 'dysfunctional?'"

That question gets laughter from the audience.

"Absolutely," I reply, smirking. "We were all equally motivated to win—but they all knew that I was the strongest, the fastest. And I think they realized early on that they really didn't stand a chance."

That warrants some oohs and ahhs. My heart pounds. Two weeks ago, I would've liked the words that had just come out of my mouth.

"Now, I _like _that!" Caesar exclaimed. "A boy with _confidence!"_

More hoots and hollers from the audience. I hated it.

"Now, Cato," he starts, his expression more serious. _Oh no, _I thought. _Don't. Don't fucking ask me about it._ "I understand that you and your district partner, Clove, trained together for eight years?"

I resist the urge to clear my throat. "Yeah, we did."

"I can't imagine how that must have been. One minute, you think the both of you are the Victors, and then the next . . ." his voice trails off.

_Fuck you_, I felt like telling him. I knew what he wants to see. I know what everyone in that goddamn audience wants. They want the star-crossed-fucking-lovers to be up on this stage. They wants Victors that are relatable and human.

Instead, they'd gotten me. Another monstrous, unfeeling Career tribute.

_I'm more relatable than you think. But I'm sure as hell not sharing that with you people._

"I was looking out for number one from the start. The announcement for two victors didn't change that," I say, coldly. And then I look right at the audience. "I killed her once, and I'd kill her a million times again, if it meant I got to win."

* * *

"You're holding it wrong."

I turned around, and found myself face to face with a smug expression. Clove smirked at me, and pulled out a knife of her own. She put her hand on the blade, and chucked it at the target. It hit a perfect bulls eye.

"Throw with the blade. It's more precise."

"Where'd you learn how to do that?" I demanded.

She shrugged. "Practice." She pointed at the sheathed sword I was carrying around. "Why do you cart that thing everywhere? That's not an Academy knife. Scared someone's gonna jump you on your walk home?"

I stared at her, stunned, and the training room rang with her high-pitched, eight-year-old laughter. I had easily six inches and forty pounds on her. The fact that she drew genuine amusement out of teasing me was ridiculous, if not dangerous.

"I'm not the one that lives in the miners' section," I retorted.

A flash of anger crosses her face. She reaches to her belt, and pulls out a blade of her own. It's short and serrated, and also not an Academy knife. "I showed you mine," she says, levelly. "Now you show me yours."

I stared at her before reluctantly pulling my sword out. She surveyed it for a second, and then she made a jab at me with her own. I instinctively deflected it. Her blade clattered to the ground, and before she knew what hit her, I had her backed up against a wall with my sword at her throat. Momentary panic crossed her face, and she breathed heavily against my arm.

The trainers had paid no attention to us, and I lowered my sword before they realized what had transpired. But I didn't move away, and neither did she. "Are you _crazy?"_ I hissed. We were nose to nose. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I wanted to see what you were made of." She pushed me off of her. A small smirk played on her lips. "And I was right about you."

And then the strangest thing happened. She extended her arm, and said, "I'm Clove. Do you want to be friends?"

* * *

"You look like hell."

I don't dare glance in Cashmere's direction, for fear that there are still remnants of semen on her face. _Capitolite _semen, to be precise. I instead keep my gaze trained on the beer bottle in my hand. I knock back some of the amber liquid, and pray that it will erase the memory of the night from my mind.

_Stop shaking. _I repeat that in my head like a prayer, but it's to no avail. My entire body is wracked with chills.

"Cato," she says, more softly this time. She sits next to me on the bed. She starts stroking my back, and I immediately recoil at her touch.

_How long will it be before I can enjoy sex again?_ I wonder. A month, a year—a lifetime? Because nothing is more torturous than having Cashmere's hands graze across my back.

I turn to growl at her, "don't fucking touch me," but her expression is so gentle, so understanding. For someone so lethal, she can be very kind.

Or maybe she just pities me.

"Please tell me it gets easier," I grumble. She's washed her face, but her hair is still a rat's nest from her romp with the Capitolite. We both smell like sweat and booze. At least she's fully clothed now; my client insisted on keeping my garments. The only article of clothing I managed to recover was my boxers.

I hear Finnick and his client in the next room. He does a spectacular job of faking it; I can almost miss the hint desperation in his voice.

"Your first night is always the worst," she tells me. "You're still fresh news. This is when you have the most clients."

My heart sinks at the sound of that. "How many?" I ask.

She looks down at the sheets. "Hard to say. For me it was five—but female Victors usually have more takers than males do."

_Five people._

The mental image is enough to make bile rise out of my throat. She continues, "You're lucky you're older, and that you've had some real experience. I won when I was sixteen. Snow started me a week later." She gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Whatever memories you have of previous love affairs, I'd suggest you hold on to them."

Hearing the anguish in her voice is enough to make me sick—but not as sick as hearing the knock on the hotel door. "I think that's my next client," I say hoarsely.

* * *

"Now, for would anybody like to volunteer?"

When Brutus said it would be a scramble, he wasn't kidding. A dozen or so trainees fought their way out of the eighteen-year-old section to run up onto the stage—but I reached it first, and I was the one that Saldia Romaro pulled up the steps. Adrenaline coursed through my body as she asked for my name.

"Cato Ludwig," I said. Did I sound strong? Ferocious? I looked to my younger sisters in the crowd for reassurance. They shot me wide smiles, and it made my heart swell. But I can't let my pride show. This was my first impression as a tribute, and I had to make the right one.

I was a monster, and I was going to win.

I looked to my left, to see who had won the Volunteer race from the girls. I expected it to be Alia Roy, or Mara Jordan—two girls in my grade who were just as hellbent on these Games as I was. But then I noticed that Alia was clutching a bloody nose, all the way back by the eighteen-year-old section. Mara stood on the steps of the stage, fuming.

My heart dropped as I took in the appearance of the girl standing next to me. Pale, dark hair, and freckles. She shot the audience a wide, manic grin.

"Clove Fuhrman," she said into the microphone.

I wondered how I looked then. Bewildered? Anxious? If so, I had to hide it, along with whatever friendship I'd built with Clove over the course of eight years. _She's as good as dead to you,_ I told myself. And she was. Her survival meant my death—the sooner we ended our friendship, the better.

"Wonderful! Now, if you two would just shake hands…"

Saldia pushed us together. She extended her arm, and I gave her a short, noncommittal shake. I glared at right at her. _Just so we're clear on where we stand, _I thought.

She received the message. She gave me a wide, unhinged smile, as if to say, _Maybe we were friends. But I will end you._

* * *

"You're home late. Long day at work?"

I can barely look Alyson in the eye. I panic momentarily, thinking I forgot to put my wedding ring back on. But I reach to my hands and find the cold metal exactly where it should be. _So what?_ I think. _If I lose this blasted thing, it won't make a difference. She's not an idiot._

There will be some nights when I forget to take it off. The Capolites _fawn_ over the fact that not only are they sleeping with a Victor, but a married one, too. I tried to keep my marriage as quiet as possible; most of my clients don't know about Alyson Holcomb, my wife of three years. The ones that do all say the same thing. _She's such a darling girl, one of the mayor's daughters, right? You two will have the most adorable children._

"Yeah,"I answer her gruffly. I pull off my tie, which is ironic because not moments ago, I was just putting it back on. I avoid Alyson's piercing gaze, and make a beeline directly for the shower. I wash off the sweat and perfume, and scrub at my skin until it's raw.

This night is particularly bad. My client was young, she'd barely turned eighteen. And she had a small frame, stone cold eyes, and dark hair. She resembled someone that I used to know a little too much for my liking.

I don't think about Clove if I can help it. Because when I do, my blood boils, and all I can remember are those last few nights in the Arena. We slept in each others' arms and made all sorts of promises. _We're going home. I can't imagine being with anyone else after this. _

I leave the shower, and climb straight into bed. Alyson gives me a warm smile. I struggle to return it.

_You know I'm a whore_, I think to myself. _And I'm sorry to put you through this. But more importantly, I'm sorry that I'll never be able to feel the same way._

I left everything I loved in the Arena.

* * *

"The cameras, Cato."

It took this reminder from Clove for me to pull myself together. Her hot breath had been on my lips, and we'd been so, _so_ close. But she's right. So I backed away, lay flat on my back and stared at the top of the tent.

"You feel the same way. I know you do," I said to her.

"We're not Twelve," she grumbled.

"Oh, what does it matter?" I replied gruffly. Because at that point in the Games, I didn't care. We were going home together, so why bother hiding what was between us? Why bother playing Career angle, when—for once—we could be honest with each other?

"It's not our angle," she replied simply. She turned her head to me, and gave me the manic, toothy grin I'd come to love. "Don't get me wrong though," she whispered. "If we weren't being watched, I'd fuck you so hard right now."

I snickered. "You should. It's so dark, I doubt anyone can see. Plus," I yawned, "The cameras are probably more focused on the star-crossed lovers right now."

In the darkness, she reached for my hand. I grabbed it, and squeezed her small, cold fingers. It was such a relief to be with her this way, after all of the pretending we'd done in the earlier stages of the Games. I harbored so much resentment towards her, earlier on. I had to confront eight years of unresolved feelings, and in the face of her impending death, at that. I _would_ win, there was no way around that. And I couldn't take her with me—so my best plan was to keep at her at arm's length as an ally, and nothing more. Not a friend, and certainly not a lover.

But it's different now. So I settled into a deep sleep that night. _I don't need to kiss her now, _I thought. _We'll have all of the time in the world once we're out of here._

* * *

Four years into our marriage, Alyson conceives.

The reality settles in slowly. At first I think of the initial consequences—my wife will spend the next nine months carrying this child. She'll grow hormonal, agitated, and will most likely direct it towards me. She'll gain a substantial amount of weight. She'll give birth to our baby, and he'll definitely have the same blonde hair and blues that Alyson and I do.

I'll become "daddy," and he'll have to watch Alyson and I continue our loveless marriage. I'll be responsible for parenting my child the same way I was parented. He's a Victor's child, and we live in district two. Raising him with a Career mentality is the only way to do it.

That's when it fully hits me, that I'm brining a child into _this _world.

He'll be reaped, and if not then he'll no doubt volunteer. Alyson and I will only send him to the finest Academy. There's a slim chance he'll die in those Games, at which point I'll spend the rest of my life wracked with grief. But he's much more likely to win those Games than he is to lose, and then …

I laugh harshly. _And then he can live the same miserable existence that I did._ Smiling for the cameras, feigning tears with every client, pretending to love a woman because the President wants him to be married and to have children.

I've damned him. Just like I damned myself when I won those Games.

It's with that thought that one night, I check in at a hotel. I drink back almost a full bottle of whiskey. I consider writing a note, but think, _what's the use?_ _I'm too fucking drunk to right legibly. That and I have no one to write a note for._

And then I stick the gun in my throat, and pull the trigger.

* * *

I can place her expression perfectly. Her hair, matted in tangles, and the blood that covers her hands suit it. And as she heaves heavily in the middle of this field, and looks down to Katniss Everdeen's body, the strap of her shirt slips off her shoulder.

I think of last night. I think of all of our other nights, in District Two. How different those nights will be, now that we're coming home as Victors.

Claudius' voice sounds beyond foreign as it interrupts my thoughts.

"There's been a slight rule change."

My gaze hasn't left Clove. It hasn't left her shoulder, where the strap is falling down so innocently. The only exposed part of her that isn't covered in blood.

"The ruling that allowed for two Victors has been, err, revoked."

His words hang in the air for a second.

"There can only be one winner."

I stop breathing.

I see the rest of my life flash before my eyes. A life of prostitution and misery. A life that will ultimately end in my suicide. _It will happen eventually, _I think.

I look to Clove. I look to the girl I grew up with, the one that taught me to throw knives by the blade. The one person that knows me better than I know myself. _She's stronger than you are. If you live, you'll be a prisoner in these Games for forever. You won't be able to live with yourself. But if she wins…_

And it's with that thought reasoning that I plunge the knife into my stomach.

* * *

"_**My hands are tied, my body bruised**_

_**She's got me with**_

_**Nothing to win and**_

_**Nothing left to lose**_

_**And you give yourself away**_

_**And you give yourself away**_

_**And you give**_

_**And you give**_

_**And you give yourself away**_

_**With or without you**_

_**With or without you**_

_**I can't live**_

_**With or without you…"**_

**-U2**

* * *

**A/N:** Ayyyyy so this was a definite downer. Sorrynotsorry.

BUT this was a fic idea that I started aaaaaaaaaages ago (we're talking 2012) that I recently revisited and went, "hey, I should finish this." This was originally based off of Jim Morrison's "Broken Strings," but after reading it a second time I was like, uh-uh, U2 all the way.

THAT BEING SAID I hope you guys have a wonderful New Year! Let me know what you thought of this fic—I hope y'all enjoyed it! (And stay safe tonight, too.)

xx Nina


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